


Until He Came Along

by Kru



Series: of witchers and bards [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Ballads, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Self-Doubt, Shameless Smut, Supportive Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kru/pseuds/Kru
Summary: “For Gods' sake!” Jaskier exclaims aloud, hitting the tree trunk with his fist as he pushes off of it and starts to walk. He makes a few steps to the next one, adding under his breath, “If he dies there, I’m going to resurrect him and strangle him with my–” he starts but then he hears a well-known snort.“Necromancy is prohibited,” Geralt only tells him flatly as he unceremoniously throws the Endrega’s head near their belongings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: of witchers and bards [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626238
Comments: 97
Kudos: 1359
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this as a separate story but there is also Geralt's POV ;) - [Connections and Omissions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512223/chapters/53793415)
> 
> Bated by truly amazing [locktea](https://locktea.tumblr.com/)
> 
> PS. Valdo still looks like Armie Hammer in my head xd

_There was time_

_My life was pointless._

_There was time_

_All the roads ahead_

_Made no sense._

_And I felt lonely_

_And I felt lost_

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_A heart of gold._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_I’m here._

_I’m always here._

_I’ve always been_

_For you._

His fingers slip, not hitting the right string and the instrument produces a strangled noise. He breaks the song, cursing under his breath when like a dozen times before he misses the same note. 

“Bollocks,” he says to himself but the horse that stands nearby neighs in lieu of an answer anyway. The bard looks at the animal critically and adds, “I didn’t ask you for an opinion, did I?”

Roach snickers, shaking her head as if she can understand what is happening and laughs at him. Or maybe she can? Jaskier often thinks this horse has more common sense than both of them. 

Today is a perfect example of that, Jaskier thinks as he puts the lute back into its casing and stands up. He knows that he won’t be able to do much writing anyway. Not when his thoughts are in a completely different place. So instead, he takes a carrot from his sack and gives it to Roach. He has been keeping it for a special occasion and this moment seems perfect when he senses that the mare is as restless as he is.

“Carrots make everything better, huh?” he asks when the horse eats eagerly from his hand and lets him graciously touch her soft ears. “I would love to have something that will have the same effect on me right now,” he adds with a long sigh, caressing her warm earlobes and looking above her head.

The horizon is even more on fire now. He can see a glow that oscillates with red and orange. It slowly takes over the whole sky, eating up all the stars. Because of that, he can only guess how much time has passed. Although it’s not precise, based on where the moon is located Geralt has been gone for around two hours.

The witcher agreed to take the contract only because of him. When they reached the village this morning, they were both starving but Jaskier was the one who couldn’t suffer in silence and nagged Geralt to no end. When he heard that there had been a problem with something that already ate six fishermen and completely cut access to the river for two villages he begged the witcher almost on his knees to take the damn job and earn some coin so they could finally eat properly and sleep in a bed. Now he wondered if maybe he had pressed too much. 

The thing was that when they spoke to the alderman and remaining witness, Geralt concluded that this “something” terrorizing nearby villages was an Endrega, a spectacularly rare monster that lives near a body of water or by swamps. But as if it wasn’t enough, based on the description, he thought it wasn’t just any Endrega. It’s the damn queen.

“And the only way to lure out the queen is to burn her eggs,” Jaskier tells Roach when she knocks her head against his arm. He looks into her nougat eyes and tries to sound calm as he says, “Don’t worry, there is nothing he can’t do.”

I hope, he adds in his mind when he scratches the mare one more time and then walks to the edge of the forest. He leans on the tree to still hide in its shadow but to have a better view on the riverside. They are on a hill and a sea of high grass spreads below his feet. It flows in the rhythm of the wind that also helps to carry the flames. He can see them getting stronger. They are growing on the horizon only to finally die down by the river. Its normally black waters shimmer with red now. It almost looks like it’s changed into blood.

Jaskier watches it and feels his fear grows. Over his journey with the witcher, this is the first time they had come across this creature. He doesn’t know how long it will take to get rid of it. How strong it is. How it fights back. And what is more important, he doesn’t know what it can do to Geralt. 

When Jaskier learned about what monster the witcher might face, he begged him to drop it even harder than when he asked to take the contract on. Those few cents weren’t worth it. He could wait to eat proper food or sleep in a bed. Those things didn’t matter if it meant Geralt’s safety was at stake. Nothing did. But then the witcher had been stubborn about his code, and rules, and the way he lives, and Jaskier just gave up. He just gave up. Like always. Like with everything. Now he just hopes he isn’t watching how his best friend sacrifices himself for a few coins. How his… What?

“Your what, Jaskier?” he asks himself, snorting.

For a moment he thinks Geralt can die not knowing. But then again what is he supposed to know? That Jaskier is in love with him? That for years the only time Jaskier wasn’t thinking about him was in the space between closing his eyes in sleep and when he woke in the morning? That even if he lies next to another stranger during another sleepless night, he has all those pictures in his mind about Geralt that will never be true because Geralt isn’t like that? Geralt is his best friend. And that took him long enough to admit. And that’s all Jaskier is ever going to be.

Jaskier knows that. Of course, he does. He isn’t naïve. He had been all those years ago when he met a lonely, devilishly handsome, white-haired witcher. He had been naïve when this lonely man saved his life. And then again and again. Over the first years together, he had a lot of hope. And then this hope changed into longing and want. Gods, those were the worst. But they changed into something else too. Something more discreet, closer and deeper. Something that he felt only when the nights were too long and too restless just like this one.

Now, most of the days he’s perfectly happy to be at Geralt’s side. And deep down Jaskier knows he gets far more than everyone else. Even Yennefer. He knows that because it’s him Geralt always comes back to. And he’s always there for him, always forgiving and always accepting. And if he’s putting out fires that burst in him time after time with another and another stranger gracing his bed then so be it. After all, it’s not the worst life to live.

And yet sometimes he wonders about all the ifs and buts. What could happen if he confesses the truth? Would Geralt hate him? Would he find him repulsive? Would he ever look at him in the same way? No. He can’t tell the truth. He can’t afford it. He can lose too much. 

He’s so glad that he learned about the damn maca root in their soup before he ate it. It was two days ago, and it felt like some higher powers looked after him. It was supposed to work like a truth serum for witchers, but he had too much to lose if this theory was right. Finally, they both passed on the dish and went to sleep starving. Well, starving but peaceful. And it only made him realize that what he had with Geralt is enough. It has to be. He can’t lose this friendship for his filthy passions and sick needs.

“For Gods' sake!” Jaskier exclaims aloud, hitting the tree trunk with his fist as he pushes off of it and starts to walk. He makes a few steps to the next one, adding under his breath, “If he dies there, I’m going to resurrect him and strangle him with my–” he starts but then he hears a well-known snort.

“Necromancy is prohibited,” Geralt only tells him flatly as he unceremoniously throws the Endrega’s head near their belongings.

“Fuck,” Jaskier bursts and jumps at the numb thumb the corpse makes but he collects himself quickly and moves closer to the witcher in an instance. “Are you alright?”

Geralt only grunts an answer, shaking off of the Endrega's remains. He still holds his silver sword. And there is blood. Quite a lot. The witcher’s shirt is soaked with it. It’s smeared on the side of his neck and his cheek.

Before Jaskier thinks of anything to contain his worry, he reaches to check the truth himself. He hesitates only for a moment before he touches gently here and there to see if he can find any cuts.

Geralt breathes out heavily, only saying, “It’s not mine,” but he still lets him lead his inspection. And Jaskier tries to be gentle. He only skims the side of the witcher’s neck to make Geralt tilt his head and prove there is nothing there.

“You never know,” Jaskier whispers, “I know that when you’re still under the influence, you can’t feel the pain,” he adds, wiping the blood off of the man’s chin with his thumb.

The witcher’s skin is incredibly hot under his fingers and yet he remains pale. And he is so steady. He’s almost like a stone, strong and unmovable. Geralt only looks at him from above. His pupils are still impossibly dilated, his eyes eaten up by the abyss of nothingness. The blood is completely drawn from his face, bringing veins up from below the surface of his paper-like skin. They pump with a rhythmical pace. Jaskier can feel them under his fingertips when he softly touches Geralt’s stained cheek. 

He thinks how beautiful it is. And how lethal. It reminds him of the first time he had seen the witcher in this state. He’d been stunned. He’d been stunned, and amazed, and simply swept off his feet. He wasn’t afraid. Why would he be afraid of anything that beautiful? Why would he be afraid of someone who trusts him so deeply to show himself in the most vulnerable way?

No, Jaskier wasn’t afraid. Not then. Not now. Not ever, he thinks as he suddenly realizes that his hand lingers on the man’s cheek for too long. He wants to take it back but Geralt is faster. He catches his wrist and suddenly pulls him close.

Jaskier tenses, all surprised and confused. He just stands there undecided what to do. And then Geralt lets out a long sigh and rests his forehead on Jaskier’s shoulder. The hand that held him leaves his wrist and moves slowly on the fabric of his sleeve to wrap around his waist and settle on his back. A strong open palm rests between his shoulder blades and brings him even closer while Geralt just nuzzles his way up to the crook of Jaskier’s neck and stays there.

For a long moment, the bard forgets how to breathe. All the sensations are so sudden, so strong and new that he thinks all this might be only in his head. But Geralt’s warmth doesn't cease to enclose him. His hand slowly but firmly holds him near. His every breath teases his skin with each exhale. And all this is as true as the wind that shakes treetops above them and as real as the smell of blood around them, so Jaskier doesn’t hold back anymore. Even if he thinks that this might be some strange side effects of Geralt’s potions and he might be taking advantage of it, he still moves his hand on the witcher’s chest to reach up and wrap his arms around his neck. Tight. So desperately tight. 

He might be mistaken but he thinks Geralt smiles into his skin. He closes his palm into a fist, crushing the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt and just keeps him in this steady, strong grip. Geralt is all around, impossibly wrapped up and so warm and alive. Jaskier thinks he can stay like this forever. He wants to never move from the safety of Geralt’s arms and just be bound by his body’s heat, feeling his every breath and calm heartbeat.

“If only–” He starts to whisper very quietly but suddenly everything changes. 

First, he feels rather than hears something when the witcher twitches. Geralt swiftly holds his head up and listens. And there it is again. Jaskier can hear it as well. This time the rustling of the grass is more defined. It’s also closer and appears faster when he catches it the third time. 

Before he can do anything, before he can even think of moving, Geralt is quicker. Jaskier is immediately reminded that the witcher still wields his silver sword. Holding Jaskier close, he unexpectedly moves them around. The motion is so rapid the bard can barely stand on his feet. But Geralt’s arm keeps him tightly pressed to the side of his body. And when in the next fraction of a second something suddenly charges at them, the witcher protects him just like a shield. He pushes him further back. Far from the danger. Jaskier rotates and hides behind the other man. And when he’s safe, Geralt positions low on his legs to abruptly turn and cut from above.

Another head falls at their feet. It's nearly the same as the one that the witcher brought with him. Jaskier looks at it, still taken aback when he straightens up and lowers his hands that he didn’t know how or when he put up.

“That… Fuck!” he bursts, breathing out heavily. “What the fuck!?” he adds still stunned. 

Geralt gives him a sheepish look as he says calmly, “I suspected there might be more than one.”

“You suspected?” Jaskier asks with his voice still a few notes too high. “You suspected and you let it come here after you!?”

The witcher only shrugs when Jaskier huffs with annoyance.

“This,” Geralt points at the decapitated corpse at his feet as he continues, “It’s a male Endrega. Queens keep one or two of them around to coat their eggs. They follow the pheromones that are produced in glands behind Queen’s ears even after her death, hence the head,” he adds, pointing his sword at the remains of the other monster.

“So, you knew it would come after you?” Jaskier asks flatly.

“That’s why I had to make you stay quiet,” Geralt admits. “Endregas tend to be timid.”

Jaskier opens his mouth and then closes it, deciding that he doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m not going to write about this,” he finally threatens, poking a finger at the witcher.

Geralt only snorts, wiping the sword’s blade against his pants.

“I doubt that,” he says when he comes closer again and puts his hand on Jaskier’s arm to squeeze it shortly when he admits, “I also doubt that we can stay in this village for the night.”

“More monsters?” Jaskier asks, resigned as he wrinkles his nose at the thought.

“No,” Geralt starts unsure and then admits, “But I burned parts of their crops together with Endrega’s eggs.”

The bard huffs weakly this time as he drops his head and states, “It’s good they already paid.”

The witcher agrees with a hum and rubs his arm lightly one more time before he moves it slowly on the fabric of his jacket to finally break their contact.

Only when the warmth of his palm is gone, Jaskier feels its absence. The bard looks at the spot that Geralt’s hand has been just a moment ago and senses a pulsating sensation. He covers it with his palm to keep it for longer, to savor it and remember. And then he realizes it must have been years or even decades since he has felt Geralt’s touch.

Jaskier moves his gaze to the witcher who starts to pack their belongings on Roach. He knows he didn’t change. He’s the same quiet, devilishly handsome, white-haired man the bard met all those years ago, and yet today he acts just like when they ran into each other the first time.

“Interesting,” he whispers to himself and squeezes his arm one more time before he rushes to help Geralt pack.

***

_There was time_

_I thought I couldn't feel._

_There was time_

_I left myself fall_

_In the deepest of the doubt._

_And I couldn’t move._

_And I couldn’t run._

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_A gentle touch._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_Even if_

_You don’t know._

_Even if you’re gone_

_Tomorrow._

Geralt did change, Jaskier thinks when he turns back and catches the witcher’s gaze from across the room. The man looks at him and even if the bard can’t see his lips covered by the mug, he still can notice a reflection of a smile in his eyes.

He can’t help but grin back while he sings the next words. He shouldn’t, because the song is supposed to be sad but it’s not that often he has Geralt with him while he performs. Still, he can’t look at the witcher all the time, other people came for him, and so he slowly moves his eyes over other faces. He winks to a lovely girl with rosy cheeks and raven hair that sits just below his feet and looks at him like he’s some kind of miracle. Then he moves on and smiles to another one that stands in a crowd a little bit further. She giggles and tries to pretend his gaze intimidates her but he’s sure she will be the first one to charge at him the minute he puts his instrument down. But the thing is, he doesn’t care about that. Not anymore. He realizes that none of them interest him. None of them are _him_.

His fingers dance on the strings on their own. Now he looks at the crowd, but he doesn’t see them. He sings and he is good, his voice is clear, the melody is perfect, but he doesn’t put much thought into it. His mind wonders on its own. He thinks about the last two months and tries to interpret every moment, every look and every touch. And he thinks that maybe, just maybe, there is something more to them. That there is something to be expected. That there is something worth waiting for. And because of that, the forgotten, buried and burnt hope somehow comes back to him. Slowly, gently it wakes inside his chest as he sings the song, he wrote that memorable night in the woods. 

And maybe he shouldn’t feel it, but this time it seems to be different. This time he has some solid proofs. He has been gathering them for the past weeks they’ve spent chasing the last days of autumn. They aren’t huge, but he sees something new in Geralt’s behavior. For example, how more often than not he feels Geralt’s eyes slowly following his every move when the witcher thinks Jaskier doesn’t notice it. How he sometimes tries hard not to touch Jaskier but then when he isn’t paying attention his hands linger far longer than necessary. And how in the mornings, when Geralt isn’t fully awake, his voice carries a strange tone when he says Jaskier’s name. And this is enough. This is also why he thinks he needs to do something about it. And because he’s a man of action, he knows it has to be soon. Very soon, he decides as he tries to find Geralt’s face in the crowd again and he fails.

For a moment panic takes over him and it washes off even the effect of all those mugs of beer he had tonight. His voice breaks on a higher note, and he knows that he can’t sing like this. His stomach is suddenly tight like someone holds it in a fist, so he quickly makes up a few last verses and finishes the song, bowing low and vigorously.

“Dear ladies and gents,” he says with his throat raw as he starts to collect coins. “I’ll have to call it a night,” he adds and already hears a chore of disappointed voices.

“One more song!” A raven-haired girl calls jumping from her spot and setting in motion her full breasts on which he has a nice view from above. 

“Sing the one about the witcher and Endrega!” The other one, standing a little further adds.

He jumps from the table and comes closer to her, giving her one of his famous, dazzling smiles.

“Darling,” he says, taking her face into his hands. “For you, I could sing here, on this stage, all night long, if I didn’t need my voice for other activities tonight,” he adds winking again as he sees her cheeks become even redder than before.

“I hope they’ll be in my bed then,” she whispers as she leans in closer and slips a note into his pocket.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to lie or disappoint his fans. He only takes her hand to kiss it lightly. As some man pats him on the back and the other near laughs out loud and comments on his luck, the bard gives her one last smile and starts to move through the slowly dispersing crowd. 

He knows that there are only two places that Geralt could go – their room and the stables. The first one is closer and so he takes the stairs upstairs, saying prayers to sweet Melitele for the witcher to be alone there. Still, when he opens the door, ready to be flashed, he holds his breath. But it must be his lucky night because in the room he only finds Geralt. In the bath. Naked and pissed off as all hells.

“There you are!” he says as equally happy as relieved, entering the room.

He winces at the noise the door makes when he pushes it a little bit too hard, but in the hot room, filled with steam that momentarily makes his clothes stick to his skin, he feels he’s drunker than he thought.

It might be for the best. His common sense is dimmed. His morals are mostly gone. His self-preservation instinct is no longer existing. It’s only him and his want. His want and longing and need. And naked Geralt who relaxes slowly and immerses himself back into the water.

Jaskier carefully puts down his instrument and then swings around to drop on the bed opposite the witcher. Now he has a great view. From this spot, he can see all the glistening lines of Geralt’s body. The shy light makes a spectacle of it, highlighting only certain parts, wet and slick, to then hide in the shadows the other parts, leaving him something for the imagination. Water only emphasizes this effect, lazily washing over Geralt’s spread long legs and arms, running with tiny drops on his torso, circling around muscles to then conjure with the rest of it low on the wither’s abdominals. Jaskier can’t tear his eyes off of it. He follows each of those drops. Their every turn, every path and every slip into the water. And he thinks that all he wants in this exact moment is to be one of them and to be able to touch and to taste and to feel. 

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks him, clearly irritated. “Shouldn’t you entertain your fans?”

“Nah,” the bard says absently and as he tries to hide his interest he adds, “I need to allow others to earn their coin. They might not be as talented as me, but I like to give them a fair chance.”

Geralt hums his acknowledgment, observing Jaskier when he concludes aptly, “In other words, you drank too much and you started singing out of tune.”

“And my throat is sore,” Jaskier confirms proudly. All morals are truly gone now when he complains, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to speak tomorrow.”

“A disaster,” the witcher huffs out a laugh and closes his eyes with a smile still playing on his lips.

And Jaskier's heart bursts. He suddenly feels how he overwhelmingly loves this man. He loves those lips. Those lips he desires to kiss and taste and tease and never have enough of them. He loves this face. This face that most of the time is shadowed by worry and grief. This face that sometimes shows glimpses of calm or happiness when they are together, far away from the world, protected by walls, private and safe. He loves Geralt’s hands. The ones that can kill so easily. The ones that are stained with blood. The ones that saved him many times. Gentle, rough hands that have never done him harm.

Jaskier wants all of that. He wants everything that Geralt is. He wants his grief and sorrow. He wants to kiss those lips that smile so little. He wants to feel those his hands that can kill. For him, it doesn’t matter. For him Geralt is everything. 

The decision is easy. He knows there might never be another moment like this and so he takes it. He stands up and starts to undress. His moves are efficient and fast. He isn’t putting on a show like he would for any of his lovers. His hands are trembling. His head spins. When he pulls his pants down, he barely sees what he’s doing. All his courage, experience and recklessness are gone, and he knows why. He knows that this is it. He knows that Geralt is the one that matters, and this moment can lead him only two ways. That’s why he startles when the witcher suddenly speaks:

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Geralt, don’t be dumb. It doesn’t suit you,” Jaskier says weakly, giving him a forced smile as he tries to dismiss his question and adds, “What does it look like? I’m joining you in the bath!”

“The tub’s too small,” the witcher answers firmly. “You won’t fit.”

“It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen,” Jaskier tries as he already steps in the water. “I don’t know what you did for the innkeeper to get a bath like this, but I approve.”

“Approve all you want but from afar,” Geralt complains. 

Still, Jaskier knows he won’t throw him out because he already makes room for him to sit. He does it carefully and tries to fit in between the witcher and the rim of the tub. Suddenly it seems to be not as big as he expected when his legs bump against the other man’s shin.

He doesn’t remember the last time they have been this close. For sure not while being this naked. No wonder his body reacts instantly. He tries to hide it, sliding deeper into the water. 

“Dear Melitele,” Jaskier sighs, his voice low as he doesn’t want for his feelings to slip into it when he whispers. “I live for moments like this.” 

The witcher hums something under his breath but he moves closer and takes up almost the whole space of the tub. Suddenly their legs brush under the surface, slick and hot. Jaskier needs to bite down on his lips to not make any sound. He allows his eyes to close and he rests his head fully on the rim of the bath, trying not to get lost in the sensation. He’s trying to pretend that this is nothing, that this is normal and that he doesn’t sense all those amazing things. And he almost manages to convince himself it is not for Geralt’s fingers suddenly settling on his skin.

First, they are barely there. They are just a ghost of a touch underwater. They’re so gentle he doesn’t know if this is truly happening. But then they dig into his skin. They trace the muscles of his shin slowly and deliberate. They slip between his tendons. They mark soft tissues, delving deeper. And the touch is just right. It’s on the edge of being tender but also painful. It might leave marks. And Jaskier wants them. He wants to see tomorrow and the day after, and after that, proof that this happened. So, he just moves closer, spreading his legs further and arching into the touch. Geralt’s hand fully settles around his ankle. Its weight is solid. The warmth that resonates from it breaks through the hotness of the water. Long, strong fingers wrap around his bones, keeping him grounded. And the only movement there, the only motion in the whole room, is Geralt’s thumb that lazily moves in tiny circles, brushing his skin softly.

Jaskier can’t hold on anymore. He sighs deeply, relaxing into the water and settling in. He feels happy. He feels whole. He feels like he’s in the right place, under those hands and with the man he loves. But he also wants more. He wants everything so he makes a move to get closer and that’s when suddenly Geralt’s hand is gone.

“Fuck,” the witcher grunts nearly inaudibly. 

Jaskier holds his head up and asks surprised, “Why did you stop?”

“What did I stop?” Geralt answers with a question, not looking at him.

“The thing with the hand. It was nice,” the bard continues, moving his feet and accidentally touching the witcher’s thigh.

Geralt still doesn’t look at him. He seems to be angry or maybe confused, or both, but Jaskier knows that everything changed between them the moment he let himself into the bath. There is only one way out now, he thinks as he decides. 

“You know what,” he says firmly. “My hair needs a wash.”

“It doesn’t,” Geralt protests, trying to stand up when Jaskier turns back.

“Oh, be quiet,” the bard shushes him, now fully convinced of his actions as he maneuvers in the water.

He turns back and manages to settle between the other man’s thighs. He rests his elbows on witcher’s knees, trying for a comfortable position but he ends up all tense in anticipation. And for a long moment, nothing happens. The bard feels that even the air is still as he waits. And then the panic starts. He thinks that maybe he moved too far. Maybe he pushed too much. Maybe he interpreted the touch in the wrong way. Maybe… 

He finally senses a movement behind him. Jaskier hears that Geralt reaches for something. It might be soap because it makes an obscene sound in the quiet room, slipping through the witcher’s fingers. And then the water shifts as Geralt moves closer. His thighs press into Jaskier’s sides. They are hot. So incredibly hot and strong, the bard sits straight at the sensation. And then suddenly he feels the touch.

Just like the one before, this one is also gentle. Soft fingertips brush against Jaskier’s lower back just above the waterline. It’s so delicate the bard almost misses it the first time, but Geralt skims his fingers over his skin one more time and then again as he tries for Jaskier’s reaction. And Jaskier is perfectly content with that. He calms down, settling into his place and he’s about to fully give in when suddenly Geralt presses the whole palm into his skin, and Jaskier jumps at that slightly. 

He isn’t afraid. He is just surprised that the touch changed so quickly. Suddenly there are two strong hands on his body, those he has longed for such a long time, and they touch, feel and tease him. They are neither small women’s hands that skimmed over his body often but without real interest, nor brutal hands of a few men he had been with that handled him without gentleness. They are different to all that. They are exploring him, slowly moving up, rough and real, but the touch is so gentle and so intent that it sends down his body waves of warmth and bliss.

“Geralt…” Jaskier huffs out, not able to hold back on a moan when another crest of pleasure runs down his spine as witcher’s hands dig deeper into his muscles.

He wants to desperately just turn around, crawl into Geralt’s lap and kiss him but he knows that it’s too early for that. He knows that for now, this has to be enough. So he just delves his fingers into the witcher’s shins, trying to stay still. But then those capable fingers slip into his hair, and he can’t resist the urge anymore.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier mutters when Geralt starts to move his knuckles throughout his strands. “I need to bath with you more often,” he mutters, arching back to get more of the other man’s touch.

“Maybe you should,” Geralt murmurs into his ear as he rests his chin on Jaskier's shoulder. 

The bard’s head drops back. The movement brings them closer. His hands slip to the man’s tights, holding on there as he moves further backwards and suddenly feels that Geralt is in the same state; hard and trembling. 

Feeling that he isn’t able to control himself anymore. His fingers dig deep into the witcher’s muscles. They also might leave marks but Jaskier wants that. He wants Geralt to see his presence there. And Geralt must want it too because he leaves his hair and moves impossibly close. His length presses now into Jaskier’s lower back, coming into contact with his skin, slick and hot. And Geralt’s hands start to wander on his body. They run from his shoulders, through his chest and move lower and lower. Geralt’s lips softly brush against the nape of his neck. His warm breath caresses Jaskier with every exhale. And he wants those lips. He wants to feel them. He wants to taste them. He wants to claim them and mark them his. He wants to erase any other taste and presence. He wants to erase others from Geralt’s body and his mind. And he wants to make him only his. So he makes a move to turn back and this is the moment the witcher suddenly stops.

Geralt holds his head up and for a moment Jaskier thinks that maybe he changed his mind but then he sees that the witcher is listening to something. He wants to look back at Geralt’s face but he holds Jaskier close to his chest. The bard knows this time it’s more for protection than anything else. 

When the sound reappears, even he hears it. High pitched noise and a rustle of feathers. He looks in its direction but he can’t see much apart from some movement on the windowsill.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks when the witcher holds his hand up and whistles shortly but high.

Immediately something flies from that direction and settles onto Geralt’s finger. Now Jaskier sees it clearly. It’s a small, black bird with a tiny, yellow beak. A kestrel, Jaskier recalls. Its deep black eyes follow him with interest as it moves his head from side to side and chirps cheerfully. 

“It’s a message,” Geralt finally answers his question and moves back, away from Jaskier.

And then he understands. It hits him like lightning. Hot. Painful. Throttling. It’s a massage from her. And he freezes. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t even blink. He just stays in the water, completely unmovable as Geralt takes the scroll from the kestrel’s feet and reads it. The bird flies off. It flies back to its mistress. And they are alone again. Alone but so far away.

“It’s from her,” Jaskier finally manages to press through his lips and moves.

He doesn’t turn back but only reaches for the sheets left for Geralt to dry. He takes a handful of them and automatically stands up, wrapping himself tightly to find some warmth. It doesn’t help. His body trembles. Waves of shudders coming up and down his spine like a shock, like after emerging from cold water. Maybe because of that his voice shakes when he states:

“She needs you.”

Geralt finally looks up at him and although the fabric wraps him completely, he feels naked, and exposed, and lost. And he sees the pity in Geralt’s eyes. He sees the witcher’s compassion. It’s downgrading. It’s humiliating. Just like his next words.

“Yes,” Geralt tells him quietly as he lets the scroll dissolve in the water. “She needs me.” 

The only thing that Jaskier thinks after those words is that maybe Geralt didn’t change at all.

***

_There was time_

_I didn’t know._

_How to love?_

_How to go along?_

_How to carry on?_

_And I wanted it to end_

_And I wanted to disappear_

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_Pitch black eyes._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_I’m here._

_I’m always here._

_I’ve always been_

_For you._

He stops and puts the lute back, against the table’s leg. The chair makes a noise as he rocks on it back and forth. A rhythmic tuck, tuck, tuck repeats every time he pushes from the edge of the table and hits the wall behind. Wood creaks below him, strained under his weight and the pressure he puts on it. He thinks it might break but he doesn’t care.

He sits alone in the main hall. Except for the owner, the inn is empty. The room is filled only with a gloomy light of an even gloomier day and it perfectly matches how he feels. He’s also cold. The room isn’t heated, the fireplace died down a long time ago, and he only wears his undershirt, but he doesn’t care about that either.

Overall he doesn’t care about a lot of things lately. He doesn’t care that his audience is shrinking slowly, having had enough of his sad songs. He doesn’t care that women scatter and don’t want to support him as he can’t ignite any interest in them. He doesn’t care he hasn’t written a single new ballad for a couple of weeks. And he even doesn’t care that it all causes his money to shrink dramatically. He even doesn’t know if he can still afford the room, or the food, or even the beer he just finished.

He stops the chair, scribbles something in his notepad again, closes it and throws it at the tabletop with too much force. It slides at the surface and stops just at the other edge of the table. He allows himself to sigh deeply, throwing his head back. As he forces the chair to hold up on just one leg, he rocks it lightly, looking at the dirty ceiling.

He knows who he should blame for all that. He knows it and yet he can’t bring himself to hate him, to make him responsible, to damn him. Jaskier would never compel someone to be with him, to stay and to love him. He’s many things but he isn’t cruel. And it has nothing to do with the fact that it’s impossible to constrain the witcher to love him with magic. Jaskier wouldn’t do it to anyone. He just wouldn’t. So, he loves Geralt too much to keep him by force. 

Day by day he loses his hope. Or maybe he already did. He doesn’t see much sense to carry on. He doesn’t see a sense overall. He thinks his whole life was a complete mistake. He is a mistake. He isn’t worthy to be loved. And that’s why he can’t blame Geralt that he again chose someone else. Or that he always chooses her. 

She is everything that Jaskier isn’t. She’s powerful. She’s capable of stopping crowds just with a gesture of her hand. She is sexy and smart… Hell, she’s so damn intelligent, he sometimes can’t believe how she isn’t ruling over the whole Continent already. And there also comes in her charisma and unquestionable charm. It’s dark and dangerous, but that’s exactly what Geralt likes. 

And who is Jaskier? He’s just a fool. He’s naïve. He trusts too quickly. He can’t protect himself. Although he knows his way with a bow or a sword, he never had the nerve to kill. He knows his way with words far better, but he also chooses not to use it to charm people, but rather to tell stories about them. He comes from a good family, but he abandoned all that for a taste of adventure, and now he is just a poor man with one name and a lute. Only that and nothing more. He’s never going to change the world, to save a nation, to make a difference. He’s never going to have someone who loves him because he isn’t enough for that. So no, he shouldn’t blame Geralt that he isn’t loving him. How could he if with her the witcher can have everything?

That’s the reason Jaskier knows he should abandon all hope. He knows that it was the last chance. They crossed the one line that separated friendship from something more. And he knows Geralt too well to think they can return from that point to what was before. By how he left things between them, leaving their room during the night, quick and quiet, Jaskier suspects he might not meet the witcher again. Not on purpose anyway. Maybe even not by an accident. Geralt it’s good at avoiding those too.

He’s like that for four weeks. Four fucking weeks. During those weeks he has waited for him. He has waited and he prayed, and he hoped. But now? Now he should forget.

The bard closes his eyes and for a long moment, he tries to just stop everything. He wants to stop thinking. He wants to stop moving. All of this is too painful. Breathing causes pain in his chest. It feels like all of his energy is focused on simply keeping his heart beating. His skin is too tight. When he touches something, his fingertips burn. That’s why he can’t write and he barely plays.

He sighs deeply and lets the chair fall back in its place. He still doesn’t open his eyes, but he just hides his face in his hands, exhaling into them long and hard. When he finally takes them off and opens his eyes, there is a blurry figure standing in front of him.

“Jaskier,” he hears a well-known greeting and a familiar voice saying, “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but you look like shit.”

The bard snorts, shaking his head. He leans on the tabletop, resting his heavy head on a hand. He looks at her for a long moment, trying to hold her gaze. There is something similar to mockery in there, but he’s used to it. What’s new and somehow uncomfortable is the real concern hidden much deeper in her violet eyes. Apart from that, she’s beautiful as always. Wearing a fashionable, black and white dress that fully exposes one of her better assets. The ever-present obsidian star at her neck reflects even in the room’s weak light, adding in a glow to her skin. She tosses an unruly, black strand of hair off her shoulder as she comes closer, but she still doesn’t say a word, waiting him out.

“Yennefer,” he murmurs pressing a small smile as he adds, “I’d ask what the fuck are you doing here, but I don’t give a damn.”

“Clearly,” she huffs out and takes the chair opposite him, looking around the inn with disdain when she says, “I see you settled in nicely.”

Jaskier pushes up off of the table to rest back in the chair when he says, “What can I say, I have a decent bed to sleep in, good food three times a day and a fully booked performance every night. What else is here to miss?”

She only arches her eyebrows, clearly not believing anything he said. She gives the hall one more look and then slowly scrutinizes him as her eyes move to the tabletop and find his notepad. Before he can reach for it, she already has it and opens it on the last page.

“Obsessive much, aren’t we?” She says, seeing the only number written on each page, starting from thirty-something and decreasing at the turn of each page. When she finally reaches one that has words on it, she reads it quietly before throwing the whole thing back at him, muttering under her breath, “You two are impossible.”

Jaskier barely catches it, automatically holding the pages close to his heart and finally asks, “What are you doing here, Yennefer? I’m sure you have better things to do, like for example whispering into kings’ ears, plotting the rebellion or fucking Geralt on that damn unicorn, rather than visiting questionable inns or talking to irrelevant people.”

She laughs shortly, asking, “He told you about the unicorn?”

“When you once kicked him out and he got drunk,” he mumbled.

Yennefer leans over the table, smiling openly when she adds, “Were you this jealous back then?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s a yes then,” she decides, clearly having the best time on his account.

He isn’t going to give her any more satisfaction, so he makes a move to leave but before he’s even able to stand up, she gives up.

“Fine,” she huffs out, dropping back into her chair. “I’m on my way to Gors Velen and it’s the only inn in Maribor that takes travelers.”

“You go to Gors Velen through Maribor?” He asks, settling back in his place, suddenly all interested. “It’s at least five more days on the road.” 

“That’s none of your business,” she answers sharply this time. 

“And for that business you needed Geralt?”

“I needed him to leave the town but I thought you’d drag your sorry ass with him as you always do,” Yennefer says flatly.

“I didn’t,” Jaskier says in the same tone, studying her carefully from his side of the table.

“And that’s an unfortunate oversight on my behalf,” she sighs dramatically.

“What do you mean?”

Yennefer snorts at that, shaking her head in a way that makes her hair suddenly spread around.

“Sometimes I wonder how you two even survive,” she says bitterly and looking straight at him, she adds loud and slowly, “I thought that when he told me last time that we were done, he finally would use his free time to get into your pants because gods only know how much he wants it.”

Jaskier opens his mouth because of course he already had a smart retort planned when the true meaning of her words hit him. He closes his lips and then opens his mouth again, having too many questions running through his head.

“So, he hasn’t–” the bard starts but Yennefer interrupts him.

“Slept with me for years,” she finishes for him.

“And you don’t–” he tries again, and she serves him with another answer.

“Send for him? No.”

“Are you rea–”

“Your mind? Yes,” she adds, rolling her eyes. “The point is that,” she says seriously now, “I needed him to not be here when I arrive and now, I need you to leave this town today. And because of that, I will give you a piece of advice about Geralt. And it’s even going to be for free, so listen carefully because something like that is going to happen only once in your whole, miserable life.”

“Will you give me his favorite position?”

“Fucking men,” she mutters to herself and runs her finger through her hair as she leans in and then says louder, “If you want Geralt to admit his feeling you need to show him what he might lose. So, make him jealous, make him feel like a second choice or, I don’t know, fucking die or something and make him see how a world without you look like.” 

Jaskier thinks about it for a moment, looking down at the book he still holds. There are thirty-four pages with a single number scribbled on them, marking each day that has passed since Geralt left him in Maribor. He thought that each of these days separated him from Geralt more and more. But maybe he has been doing this to himself? Maybe he should fight for this man more? Maybe this one time he should be the braver one? Maybe there was still some hope? 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says clearly annoyed and brings him back from his thoughts. When he meets her eyes, she adds, “If you don’t pack your bags and leave now, I’ll help you with the last idea. I’m just not sure Geralt will be on time to save you this time.”

“Promises, promises,” he says but then she holds her head up and he jumps from his spot to take his lute and notepad, shouting as he leaves, “Consider me gone!”

***

_There was time_

_When the world was_

_A cruel place_

_Of loss_

_Of misery_

_Of despair._

_And I couldn’t see._

_And I couldn’t find._

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_Hair like snow._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_Even if_

_You don’t know._

_Even if you’re gone_

_Tomorrow._

“Tell me to leave and I will,” Geralt says quietly, barely able to look at him when the words ring in Jaskier's mind like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The plan doesn’t work, he thinks. This time he did all the right moves. He did as Yennefer said. He even didn’t hide his feelings. He spoke his mind and his heart. And yet it doesn’t work.

He left Maribor the same day that he got the advice from the sorceress, and then caught a tinker’s wagon to the first place that came to his mind – Cidaris. The city itself isn’t special. There are a few more interesting ones where he can make a higher profit than here, but he knows that the king of Cidaris values his talents and likes to brag about anyone famous who honors his court. So, he’s been sure that once he’d start to play at the court the word about it would go into the world and find Geralt wherever he’d be.

The other part of the plan wasn’t hard to fulfill either. Firstly, Jaskier knows many people who would go for him just after one tender smile or look. Secondly, he knows who from those people the witcher detests the most. The choice was simple. Valdo was in Cidaris. Also, as far as Jaskier's memory serves him, the other bard has wanted to get into Jaskier’s pants for as long as they’ve known each other. And Geralt knows this too.

It seems that when he’s seen the witcher in the Grand Inn when he performed the song that he managed to finish and that he wanted for Geralt to hear, finally everything has been set into the right place. He had Geralt's full attention. He had Valdo’s adoration. He pretended to reciprocate it so well. And still, it meant nothing. 

“I don’t even deserve to be asked for forgiveness,” he states with a shaking voice.

He stands in the cold, wet air, feeling that he shivers not only from the chill but also from anticipation. Geralt is close. He can feel the radiating warmth from the other man's body. The witcher is like a solid, unmovable force that can shield him from the world. His broad shoulders cover him from the unwanted gaze. He feels like they are alone in the market square, standing surrounded only by the mist. One, isolated sound reaches them up to where they stand under arches, a distant sound of crashing waves. And the only thing Jaskier wants to do, it’s to cross those few inches that separate them and get closer, wrap himself in those arms, stay like this forever. But he also knows that he can’t lose his standing now. So, he just waits. He waits for the words that Geralt wants to say and yet he can’t. He waits and repeats in his mind like a prayer: tell me that you need me, tell me that you love me, tell me that you want me, and I’m yours. But nothing comes. Geralt doesn’t move. He doesn’t make a single noise. And suddenly there is a voice calling him from the direction of the inn, and the moment is lost.

“Jaskier they chant your name!” Valdo shouts and they both lookup.

Geralt moves away. His warmth is gone momentarily and Jaskier feels like he just lost a part of his own heart. But he fought for it and he doesn’t have more strength to carry this on. And when he meets Geralt’s eyes again, he sees that he isn’t the only one who gave up.

“I’d never ask you to leave,” he just says, because it’s true and because he needs Geralt to understand that this isn’t his decision.

He slips past the other man, not looking back. When he enters the inn again, he knows he should be hit by the hot air, the smell of sweaty bodies and split beer, but he feels nothing. The only thing that he can sense is the overwhelming cold. It spreads from his heart and slowly takes over his body, one part after another. 

He lets Valdo’s arm settle around his shoulder. He drags him through the crowd to their former spot, talking and laughing. Jaskier doesn’t listen. For what he cares Valdo could die here, in front of him, and he wouldn’t even notice. He also doesn’t hear what is going on in the room. He thinks that the other bard starts to play, and he also touches his lute, but he can’t bring himself to pick it up. People might be talking to him. Maybe they ask what he’s going to perform next or what he would like to drink, but the only thing that rings in his head are those unspoken words that Geralt could have told him but he didn’t. The only thing he sees is the life he could have, the life that slipped through his finger just a moment ago and smashed on the marble pavement of the market square. All those moments, all kisses, all touches they could share are gone now.

“And for what?” he whispers to himself, running his finger delicately on the strings. “And for what, Jaskier? For the upper hand? For pride?” He says louder, recalling words from a song that’s now written in his heart like in stone.

He’s about to take the lute and start to sing it when he hears something that suddenly drags his attention away. A man is standing in the inn’s open door. He looks frightened and crushed. He says something but nobody listens. When he opens his mouth again, Jaskier rather reads a word that forms on the stranger’s lips, then hears: “The witcher.”

He instantly knows that something is wrong. It’s like an acquired intuition from all these years spent with Geralt on the road. So, he jumps on the table and shouts.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” He needs to repeat it louder before the crowd ceases talking and he adds, “Good Sir, what is your trouble?”

“The witcher,” he says again but now he has all attention. His voice shakes when he adds, “He went after a Manticore, mister bard.”

“And what’s the fucking problem?” Someone from the crowd asks while the other continues. “Fucking witcher kills the fucking monster, nothing unusual.”

“Shut up,” Jaskier hisses through his clenched teeth and jumps from the table to come to the man closer and add softer, “Speak, good sir.”

The stranger scutches his hat in his hands when he tells him unsure, “It attacked my son so hearing that there was a witcher in town I ran to look for him. I led him to the gate and he just took his sword and told me to hide but I didn’t because I wanted to find my boy and then I saw that there isn’t just one monster but the whole horde. There are big, ugly beas– ”, the man's voice starts to break as he bursts in tears and Jaskier needs to interrupt him, shaking his arm.

“How many?” he only asks and feels the man tremble under his finger.

“Many… Many, mister bard, f-five, maybe-s-six,” the stranger mumbles and bursts into tears completely, hiding his face in the hat.

Jaskier doesn’t know what is going on in the inn after that. He moves instantly. He doesn’t know what he can do or if he’ll be able to help, but he knows he needs to be with Geralt. Even if it means losing everything. Even if it means dying.

He runs through Cidari’s narrow streets like crazy. He collides with someone and the person falls but he doesn’t care. He needs to be there. On time. He needs to help Geralt. When he takes the next turn and then the other, he imagines all scenarios. He thinks of every possible situation he might see there. And maybe because of that, when he finally passes the gates, then the arching bridge over the town’s moat and enters the border of the trees, he suddenly stops bewildered.

There is so much blood. That’s the first thing he sees. All of it is dark and viscous. It mixes with the road dirt. It covers the grass. It spreads on all that remains. Parts of bodies are lying around, dropped like chunks of ragged dolls. It's a mess. It’s a mess of bones, tissues, and ichor. And for a moment he just feels an overwhelming terror. He can’t see Geralt in all that. Nothing moves. Nothing indicates that there is something or someone out in this alive. The fear takes over him. It paralyzes Jaskier to the point he can’t breathe. He even can’t feel his heart anymore. And the only thought that screams in his mind is that–

“It looks like you’re too late,” a voice close to him says, reading his mind. 

He looks back and sees Valdo who ogles everything with his usual mocking glance. Jaskier wants to kill him. He wants to overtake him and strangle him. He wants to stick those words back to his mouth, so he’d choke on them. He wants to scratch his eyes so he wouldn’t look at all that was left from Geralt as he would only see monsters’ corpses, dammed and despised.

“Fuck off,” Jaskier only manages to say.

He sees more people now. They all look interested. Some of them are smiling. And it makes him sick. So instead of looking at them, he turns to what is left after the massacre. He needs to find Geralt. He needs to find him, get him out of here and take care of what is left. He owes him that at least.

Slowly he comes closer to the remains. They stink. Their smell spreads around with the vapor that comes off still hot bodies, condensation hanging in the cold air. Its center is in the biggest pile where two Manticores lay on each other. Further, he sees another one and then one more, smaller. Some of them are missing limbs. Almost all are split on their whole length. 

So, where the hell is Geralt? Jaskier thinks and walks slowly. He doesn’t know if it’s safe to even still be here. He doesn’t know if there are more monsters in the woods. Maybe the witcher ran after one? What did the man say? How many were there? Five?

The bard decides to follow along the trail of dead bodies. He hears steps behind, but he decides to ignore them. He doesn’t want to give these people more entertainment they already have from this, so he just walks carefully around the fourth Manticore and that’s the moment he sees it. It’s Geralt’s silver sword. It’s poking from below the massive corpse, drowning in blood and monster’s guts.

He falls to his knees instantly and tries to move the body. And there it is. A hand. Geralt’s hand.

“I need help!” he screams.

“What for?” One of the men from the tavern asks.

“The fucker’s dead,” the other echoes.

“Valdo,” Jaskier says. “If you don’t help me, I’ll make sure that king Ethain knows who fucks his wife on the side.”

“You wouldn’t–” Valdo starts but he only sees Jaskier’s gaze and kneels behind him.

They both hold up the body and roll it on the side. The blood suddenly runs from the open corpse, spreads around with its almost black grease, but Jaskier sees Geralt. He’s whole. Almost. There is a nasty gash running from his left shoulder to the chest. But he’s whole. And when the bard leans close, he feels tiny, almost not-there ghost of his breath.

“Get Dorregaray,” he requests, already trying to get rid of some part of the witcher’s armor to see the damage.

“Who is going to pay for that?” Valdo asks, not making a move.

Jaskier glances up and says through his clenched teeth, “You, if you want to keep your balls and the position you hold at the court. Go!” He adds, and holding Geralt’s cold face in his hands, he tries to wipe the Manticore’s blood from his skin as he leans in and whispers, “Stay with me. Stay here for me.”

***

_But all that is in the past._

_All that is gone._

_There is no_

_Heart of gold._

_There is no_

_Gentle touch._

_There are no_

_Pitch black eyes._

_There is no_

_Hair like snow._

His fingers dance on the strings delicately. Each sound that comes out of the instrument is smooth and perfect. Jaskier smiles to himself, pleased with his creation when he sings very quietly. He’s tired but he can’t sleep. Energy buzzes in his veins like they’re filled with liquid fire. He needs to do something, anything to occupy his thoughts and let Geralt rest.

The past few days had been emotional and exhausting. First, there was a matter of Geralt almost dying. For a few hours after Jaskier found him, even Dorregaray, Cidari’s residing mage didn’t know if the witcher will survive the fight. The gash was a one nasty mess needing a lot of stitches and based on what the sorcerer said, Geralt also suffered from an internal head trauma that he cured with magic and a lot of sleep. Geralt was out for almost a week. A week during which Jaskier nearly crawled out of his skin, worrying and praying – both things he doesn’t like and tries to avoid at all cost. By the end of the week he had been so hopeless and exhausted, he even considered sending for Yennefer. Fortunately for him, Geralt finally woke up. And that? That exhausted Jaskier in many other ways.

The bard smiles again, looking at the witcher spread on the sheets next to him. He’s deep in slumber. Centimeters of warm skin are tangled in a soft fabric that hides and then uncovers some parts of it. Strong arms tightly hold the pillow while Geralt presses his face in it. His back is also exposed. Jaskier can see all the scars that mark it. New ones and old intervene together, creating a history of this extraordinary man. He pulls gently on the rumpled fabric but to his dissatisfaction parts of it get stuck under the witcher. It closely wraps around his buttocks, stretching on hard muscles to exactly show the shape of what they hold. 

Geralt sighs softly and starts to turn in his sleep. Jaskier observes every movement. He follows how all those muscles move under the skin. How they settle finally relaxed. He drinks every single motion. He devours every fraction of skin, every refraction of the light, every settling shadow. And he is still hungry for more. And he thinks he would never have enough of it.

The witcher lies on his back now. His hair is a mess of white strands. His lips parted as he slowly breathed. And as the air expands his lungs, giving him life, Jaskier can see the flow that moves his abdominals. He follows the motion further and further to see that now the sheets hide another full and swelled part of Geralt’s body. It throbs and licks through the fabric, making it translucent and revealing.

The bard stops in a half move. He even holds an inhale. He’s sure that he just sees the single most beautiful thing in his life. And he wants to touch it because he can and because Geralt is his. The witcher said it so many times last night. But then again, Jaskier promised himself to let the man rest. He knows they’re going to travel soon and Geralt needs every minute of this downtime…

“The hell with it,” Jaskier whispers, deciding.

He puts the lute hastily on the bed’s side table. He even doesn’t care that the instrument makes a strangled noise. He delicately shifts on the bed. Carefully, as not to startle Geralt awake, he holds himself above the other man.

First, he touches Geralt’s lips. His fingertips are barely there, skimming soft skin as he tries not to wake him up. And then his lips follow the touch. He kisses the witcher lightly, parting the man’s mouth when his fingers trace lines of Geralt’s body further. They move on the witcher’s chin and then his mouth chases them. His neck, his torso and then lower he licks a veil of sweat that suddenly appears on the man’s skin. Each gentle kiss is preceded by a tender touch. Jaskier takes his time to explore. Yesterday he didn’t have much of a chance. He let Geralt have his ways. Now he can have this moment. So slowly, very slowly, he tastes and tries. He feels how the man reacts and what parts of his body are the most responsive.

He kisses his way to the man’s abdominal. He nips and drags his teeth while his finger slowly and carefully untangles Geralt’s member from the sheets. At this moment he’s sure that the witcher isn’t sleeping and he must like what the bard is doing as he makes a strangled moan when Jaskier finally licks his way down the full length.

He feels a touch. A hand gently settles at the side of his head, cupping his neck. The gesture isn’t intrusive. It’s quite the opposite. It’s like Geralt asks him for something. For permission. For more. For deeper. So, he glances up and finds the witcher’s gaze. Geralt looks at him with half-closed eyes. His expression is a sum of so many things Jaskier has trouble unraveling them. There is adoration and hunger. There is amazement. And there is bliss. So much bliss.

He’s equally affected. His body reacts on his own, building inside him a response. And he also wants. He wants to feel more. He wants to devour more. He wants to completely rule over the witcher's body and erase any other memory of pleasure that there might be in Geralt’s head that doesn’t come from the bard only. So, he takes and takes, dragging from witcher’s lips short, panting sounds of approval, but he also gives a lot in return. He gives Geralt his lips. He gives him his hands. His breath. His heart pounds faster and faster with every move. And soon Jaskier has what he wants. He feels the witcher on his tongue. He tastes a bitter, salty pleasure. And then suddenly the hand that stroked his cheek just a moment ago now urges him to move up. Geralt guides him to his lips, closing his mouth in a hungry kiss. In an instance, Jaskier is rolled to his back. Again, he drowns in the softness of the bed when a massive body presses him into the mattress. And it feels so delicious to feel Geralt’s weight. It’s so fulfilling to have witcher’s urgent lips storming his mouth while his hands take care of Jaskier’s body. It takes Geralt a few strokes of his skilled fingers and Jaskier is there again.

Geralt drinks the last, long groan straight from the bard’s lips as they both come down from their high. Their breaths are still rapid and fast when the witcher drops on the bed, on Jaskier, completely crushing him with the weight of his body. They are hot, sticky and sweaty, but for Jaskier this is alright. He wants to have this man close. He wants to feel him all the time and just be together, so he settles more comfortably below. Suddenly Jaskier is enclosed by warm arms, gently but tight. The witcher pushes his legs between Jaskier’s, wrapping them around each other completely. And looking for even more contact, he hides his face in the crock of Jaskier’s neck, nuzzling his way up to the bard’s ear.

“Shouldn’t you change the ending of the song, hum?” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier laughs, concluding, “You haven’t been sleeping the whole time.”

He feels the witcher’s smile against his skin when he hums his agreement. Jaskier’s fingers find their place on Geralt’s skin again. He gently strokes the arms that wrap him closely, like he constantly wants to make sure that all that is real.

“Alright,” he says finally, deciding. 

His fingers start to dance on Geralt’s biceps in the same way they would on a lute’s strings. 

“What would you say for something along those lines,” he adds and then sings very quietly. “But all that is in the past. All that is gone. Because Geralt of Rivia finally knew where to stick his sword.”

Geralt holds his head up so he can look at Jaskier’s face as his brows arch in an unspoken doubt.

“No,” he says simply.

“Fine, it wasn’t the finest creation,” Jaskier admits with a sigh and sits up against the pillows. “Let’s think about it.” He taps his fingers in a monotonous measure as he contemplates aloud, “The rhymes here are particularly tricky, yet sophisticated, so I need to find very peculiar words.”

Geralt makes himself comfortable beside Jaskier as he observes the bard with a fond smile.

“Ah, I have it,” Jaskier holds a finger and sets the tempo with it, singing. “But all that is in the past. All that is gone. Because Geralt of Rivia likes to lick just one cock,” he finishes with an unapologetic smile.

“And here I thought I’ll be able to tell you that your rhymes are far better than Valdo’s,” the witcher tells him flatly but the bard still sees a smile playing in his eyes.

Does he think how others in Geralt’s life would play this? Would Triss pretend to be hurt to make the witcher feel guilty? Would Yennefer make a scene, so Geralt would think she’s hurt and so he would try to apologize for the next few weeks? Jaskier would probably tease him to cover how he feels, but he has had enough of those games. He doesn’t have to play them. He doesn’t want to. He isn’t like many others in the witcher’s life. He’s in the right place. He’s in the arms of a man he loves. A few days ago, Jaskier thought that he might lose Geralt. He thought that he wouldn’t be able to say those words. Ever. He thought that all is gone. His hope. His life. His future. Now he got another chance. He doesn’t want to waste it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks as the bard is suddenly silent, but Jaskier stops him, shaking his head.

“I just think I got the right one,” he admits.

He cups Geralt’s face in his hands and the man allows him to run fingers over his features. Jaskier’s thumb gently strokes witcher’s lips while his other fingers smooth over Geralt’s brows. He sings quietly but this time his voice is calm and sure:

_Destiny or not._

_All that was true._

_I gave him_

_my mind._

_I gave him_

_my heart._

_And he slayed_

_all my monsters_

_for good._


	2. Until He Came Along (Remastered)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ballad that Jaskier wrote during a curse of this story with changed ending.

There was time  
My life was pointless.  
There was time  
All the roads ahead  
Made no sense.

And I felt lonely  
And I felt lost  
Until he came along  
The man with  
Heart of gold.

And he said,

You’re safe with me  
My love.  
I’m here.  
I’m always here.  
I’ve always been  
For you.

There was time  
I thought I can’t feel.  
There was time  
I left myself fall  
In the deepest of the doubt.

And I couldn’t move.  
And I couldn’t run.  
Until he came along  
The man with  
Gentle touch.

And he said,

You’re safe with me  
My love.  
Even if  
You don’t know.  
Even if you’re gone  
Tomorrow.

There was time  
I didn’t know.  
How to love?  
How to go along?  
How to carry on?

And I wanted it to end  
And I wanted to disappear  
Until he came along  
The man with  
Pitch black eyes.

And he said,

You’re safe with me  
My love.  
I’m here.  
I’m always here.  
I’ve always been  
For you.

There was time  
When the world was  
A cruel place  
Of loss  
Of misery  
Of despair.

And I couldn’t see.  
And I couldn’t find.  
Until he came along  
The man with  
Hair like snow.

And he said,

You’re safe with me  
My love.  
Even if  
You don’t know.  
Even if you’re gone  
Tomorrow.

Destiny or not.  
All that was true.

I gave him  
my mind. 

I gave him  
my heart. 

And he slayed  
all my monsters  
for good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another part of the visualization. I hope you will like it :)


End file.
